Why am I such an idiot? I just wrote about how I've gained some weight. I know I'm pretty much rockin' the beer gut. Why would I reach over to the pile of skinny jeans that has been sitting next to my pants drawer? They haven't even made it into the damn drawer because I know it's a farce. Why would I reach for a pair of jeans that hasn't even made it into the regular line up of "you're fooling yourself" jeans. They're still "This woman is delusional if she thinks she'll be squeezing even one buttock into these pants" pants.
The day is not going well.
I'll tell you what prompted it. The aftershocks of (dant dant dant daaaaaaaaa) - The Pizzeria. It had to be some sort of post traumatic stress syndrome in association with visiting that place.
There is a pizza place next to Neato Burrito (Oh Neato Burrito How I love you so - but that's an ode for another blog on another day). My one urchin has a fatal flaw. She will not eat the wondrous manna from the gods known as the concoctions of California mission style burritos from Neato Burrito. I know. I've had to go through my twelve steps to come to terms with it, and most days I can accept her for who she is. I'm big like that.
So anyway, She must have a slice of pizza instead. So while the Man and urchin #1 get to walk directly into paradise and begin ordering up their own little slices of heaven, moi (bonjour French Canadian lurkers!) and urchin #2 go down 4 stores in the strip mall to (cue proper dread inducing music) the pizza shop.
As soon as you step inside the darkened atmosphere, the uber potent Italian testosterone fills every open orifice it can cling to and your estrogen undergoes a chemical reaction transforming your body into a piece of meat. From behind the counter, every greasy male eye is on you.
Next, the foreign language begins with lots of deep heh, heh, hehs as you approach the counter.
"What c'n I getta for you, miss?" Everywhere else nowadays I'm ma'am. Yes, I've reached that magical age where I now notice that every stranger around me refers to me as . . . *sigh* ma'am. But here, I'm miss. So I approach the register with caution, being sure not to make direct eye contact with anyone and place my order as the image of the Virgin Mary stares down on me from the wall above. The men don't seem to notice. They've all practically smooshed their faces against the glass divider to try and stare through my clothing.
So then comes the first tricky part. Passing the money over without making skin to skin contact. These are some tricky devils. No matter how I try, they're quicker and wilier than me. I am always on the receiving end of a cheesy finger caress no matter how I do it. They must teach it to them before they're allowed to work the register and practice it all day. So after I unsuccessfully dodge the tentacle fingers, I'm free to move away as they heat up the slice.
I usually occupy urchin #1 around the corner at the pinball machine, but there's an open door to the kitchen directly across from there. Each and every worker must come to the door and look at us with their penetrating testosterone laced stare. Another one they must practice on each other because they're practically identical. Only the amount of eyebrow wiggle accounts for any individuality.
To Be Continued . . .